—
I want to hold your hand one last time before it turns cold but I don’t know how.
The Hexacoto
Listening to the sound of one hand clapping
Tag: death
July 12, 2016
The Death
(This is post is backdated, written on 23rd July, 2016)
0715
My alarm gargled. Why had I even chose this alarm on my phone? Whatever, I’m awake, but I didn’t want to wake. Waking up to make a living to live is hard. I stay in bed for another 5 minutes.
0720
More gargling. Ok I’m up. I walk down the hallway to the bathroom to shower and get ready for work.
The door was locked. I opened the room to his door, he was not in the room. Well, he’s in the toilet. I could hear snoring sounds. Seriously, why couldn’t he have just slept in his bed like a normal person? But I guess if he were sitting on the toilet till he fell asleep, he must be having some intestinal issues. It’s happened before.
More snoring. I knock loudly on the door. No response, but the snoring continues. I knock even louder; knuckles, palm, heel of hand all rapping the door. I rattle the doorknob. Five minutes must have passed, probably. I am starting to get irritated. “I have a job to get to, you know,” I thought to myself, with a further thought in parentheses (why do thoughts even need parenthesis?) “…unlike you.” More rattling, more rapping — I was an irate rapper.
0730
Then the snoring stopped.
“Josh. JOSH.” I was slapping the door, the door had offended me. Rattlesnakes rattle because they warn that they represent death. I rattled the doorknob and I was murderous. Should I kick the door down? Nah, I don’t want to pay to replace the door. Maybe if I did I’ll have Josh pay for it. But he won’t be able to pay for it. Let’s not do that, let’s not tax his financials.
Do our bathroom doors even have master keys? I peered at the doorknob that has its keyhole cap removed. No, it seems, but I spy with my little eye: a screw. The master key is a screwdriver.
Turning around and into the tool/everything closet, I tried to look for my small flathead screwdriver. Where is it? Josh probably took it and never put it back. For some reason, I suddenly thought about that episode of Family Feud I saw on TV with my friends when we went upstate for a holiday, and the phrase was: “Stop using my _____!” The third most voted answer was “tools.” I finally found a small flathead and unlocked the door from outside.
0735
He was keeled over the bathtub, completely naked. It looked like he had fallen asleep/passed out, leaned over the bathtub. His head laid sideways in the bathtub. There was a small puddle of brown vomit in the bathtub. He can’t be asleep in the bathtub. The vomitus was putrid and a slurry in the bathtub. I need to get him out of the bathtub.
Finger to nose test: indeterminate
Finger to jugular test: no pulse
What do I do now?
/system override: panic; uncertainty;
initiate: forced calm
/lift
feedback: grunting heard
processing: state=asleep?
initiate awakening processes
/slap /shake
feedback: no response
initiate emergency systems: CPR memory retrieval
andrenaline booted up, please wait
retrieval results: A-B-C
[commentary: isn’t that outdated? isn’t it like CBABC at this point?]
detecting breath; detecting pulse
= 0; = 0
commencing compression: start cycle 8 counts; check for breathing
feedback: loud wheeze accompanying 4 compressions
/STOP
override failure: composure broken
What do I do now?
compressions resumed, 8 counts achieved, loud wheeze with each compression
/STOP
composure regained
status report:
URGENT — pull him out into hallway
URGENT — place him on side
URGENT — call 911
URGENT — email boss that you’ll be delayed
And so I did.
0750
The EMTs arrived.
“What happened?” “Tell me about the person,” “Name? Age?” “How are you related to him?” “Does he have any form of ID?” “Any known drug allergies? Health conditions?”
“No pulse, no breathing.” “Let’s hook him up.” “Asystole.” “You got the drugs?” “Yea I have them ready.” “Can’t do compressions, lungs not inflating.” “Need head elevated.” “Do we have a pillow or something?” [yes] “Intubate him.” “Is that blood in the air pump?” “Seems to be. I don’t think it was intubation puncture.” “Pneumothorax?” “Not sure.” “Still no pulse.” “Time?” “Eight minutes” “Is that all the drugs?” “We still have one more.” “Let’s use it.” “Ready?” “Secured into leg.” “Keep doing compressions.” “How’re we doing?” “No response.” “Time?” “14 minutes.” “We’ll keep going until the doctor says to stop.”
“Sir, it’s been 18 minutes of attempts to resuscitate. We’re in touch with the doctor, but because it’s been 18 minutes”
“He might tell you to cease resuscitation. I understand.”
“Right. You know that the moment he shows any sign of life we would have whipped him to the hospital immediately.”
“I understand.”
“At this stage you might have to prepare for what comes next.”
“That he might be pronounced dead. I understand.”
(Ma’m, we’ve got in touch with the doctor. We’ve told him that we’ve attempted resuscitation for over 20 minutes. He says that we can stop resuscitation now.)
“Sir, I’m sure you’ve heard that. I’m sure you know what this means.”
“I understand. He is dead.”
08??
I understand that he is dead.
DAY 1 –>
September 24, 2013
Repost: Reasons why my mother was an asshole
Image credit to People We Remember
Repost from People We Remember, a site “about memorializing the poignant moments of those we’ve loved and lost along the fragile road that we call life.”
–
When I was 12 years old, I overheard my mother and sister talking about something. I couldn’t really figure exactly what they were saying but they were behaving all strange and secretive. It had to be important. It had to be significant. I had to know.
So I asked. “What are you talking about?”
To my surprise, they refused to tell me. “You don’t have to know. You don’t have to know just yet.” I persisted and persisted but they refused to tell me. I pled and whined but nothing, not a single word from either of them, and that made me incredibly suspicious.
What were they hiding from me? Why wouldn’t they tell me?
What news was so significant and yet, crucial that I didn’t know about it?
So in the middle of the night, laying on my bed and staring at my celling, I came to the conclusion that I was dying. I probably had some terminal illness, like cancer of the eyebrows or something and was going to die in a couple of months. They were just finding a way to tell me. They just wanted to shield me from the harsh truth. They just wanted me to die happy. They probably wanted me to take my PSLE (Primary School Leaving Examination) before I died.
So in the span of 2 days, I went through the 5 stages of grief.
Denial
This can’t be happening to me. I am only 12. They must have gotten it all wrong. They probably mixed me up with some other kid. It is probably Kenneth. Come on. That kid has so many moles on his face. One of them has got to be cancerous.
Anger
Why me? Why the hell me? I pay attention in class. I don’t talk and throw shit around! I don’t bully people! Why the fuck not Jun Jie? That boy calls me names all the time. I mean in what world does Perry even sound like Penis.
Bargaining
What if I study really hard? I promise I will score all As, even for Chinese. My Chinese will be better than that Indian kid who is constantly used as an example of how terrible my Chinese is.
Come on God, you can’t kill a kid with so much potential.
Depression
I might as well just stay home and watch cartoons. I might as well just not eat my fruits and vegetables. It’s not like constipation is going to affect me in a few days. Dead people don’t shit right?
Acceptance
Oh well, I mean life is full of sadness and disappointments. I might as well just go tell my mother that I know so she doesn’t have to worry about telling me anymore.
So I told my mother.
And she looked at me.
And laughed
And laughed
And laughed
Actually, she continued laughing all the way till Chinese New Year, where she told all my relatives that her son actually thought that he was going to die.
She hugged me from behind and said,
“What a silly boy.”
No one likes self-righteous people who can’t laugh at themselves.
No one likes self-righteous people who can’t laugh at their own son, especially when he is being an idiot.
~
My mother never believed in a reward system. Kids in school would get presents and money if they scored really well in their tests. I would not.
“You are supposed to do well. Why should I reward you for doing something that you are already supposed to do?”
That’s my mother’s reasoning. To a kid, that was plain bullshit. She was just being mean. She was being an asshole.
However, she did reward me for something. Whenever I did something good or righteous, she would reward me. I helped an old lady cross the road and I was allowed to choose whichever Lego set I wanted.
This led to me becoming quite an overly enthusiastic nice person. Old ladies who needed help crossing roads became like giant walking Lego sets to me.
After a while, the rewards stopped but the habit stayed with me. I guess my mother was on to something.
The world doesn’t need good intentions.
The world needs people who do nice things.
It doesn’t matter what reason or hidden agenda or Lego set you want, as long as you do nice things, that’s all that matters.
~
My mother was a liar.
Till the age of 15, I genuinely thought that my mother was an insanely picky eater.
She didn’t like:
Chicken Drumsticks
Fried Dumplings
Crab Meat
Lobsters
Oysters
Satay
Fish
Nuggets
Cheese
Basically, she didn’t like anything delicious. She would cook or buy them and later say that she didn’t like them or she wasn’t hungry.
So I ignorantly ate them all,
all of her love.
~
She constantly corrected my grammar.
Let’s face facts.
That was pretty annoying.
~
She died.
That was pretty annoying too.
~
I stared at the back of my dad’s head, trying to decipher what he felt about my little article about his dead wife; my dead mother.
After 5 minutes of silence and rapid scrolling, my dad turned and looked at me and smiled “You are the asshole.”
September 9, 2013
White chrysanthemums
Grandma
This white chrysanthemum
I want to give to you
September 7, 2013
Thoughts from Four Weddings and a Funeral
There is nothing sadder than the laughter uttered
at the remembrance of a funny memory of a dearly departed
which is then immediately swallowed
because one is reminded that
the dearly beloved is no longer there.
The Hexacoto 